"Come in!" she said at length hoarsely.
She wondered whether he would kill her. She wondered whether she was in
love with her husband. She had begun wondering that lately; she was
wondering it when he came in. He had changed his dress-coat for a
silk-faced jacket, in which he was in the habit of working with
Steinmetz in the quiet room after the household had gone to bed.
She looked up. She dropped the brush, and ran toward him with a great
rustle of her flowing silks.
"Oh, Paul, what is it?" she cried.
She stopped short, not daring to touch him, before his cold, set face.
"Have you seen any one?" she whispered.
"Only De Chauxville," he answered, "this afternoon."
"Indeed, Paul," she protested hastily, "it was nothing. A message from
Catrina Lanovitch. It was only the usual visit of an acquaintance. It
would have been very strange if he had not called. Do you think I could
care for a man like that?"
"I never did think so until now," returned Paul steadily. "Your excuses
accuse you. You may care for him. I do not know; I--do--not--care."
She turned slowly and went back to her chair.
Mechanically she took up the brush, and shook back her beautiful hair.
"You mean you do not care for me," she said. "Oh, Paul! be careful."
Paul stood looking at her. He was not a subtle-minded man at all.
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